by Jessica Jiji
It was pouring the next morning when I went on my rounds. Normally that was just the type of day to make me bitch about my job, but compared to the office routine hell I’d barely escaped, this was heaven.
When I picked up Mini the Great Dane at Sergio’s hair salon, I was, as usual, a total slob compared to all the fashionistas getting their three-hundred-dollar treatments, but for once I didn’t feel inferior. Maybe it was because I had made friends with Vanessa—her confidence in my ability was contagious.
Maury Blaustein was as glued to his Lounge-Around as always, but he actually looked up from the Lifetime television movie he was watching and noticed me. “You do something different to your hair?” he asked.
“Well, besides being soaking wet, not really,” I answered.
“It’s a good look for you,” he suggested. I knew I looked like a drowned rat, but Maury was onto something: I felt different that day.
Neither Danilova was home, so I had a good chat with Slobodan when I saw her. “No, I would never leave you!” I said as she wagged her tail and nuzzled me affectionately. “I would never, ever, ever leave you.”
Lulu was next, and then Cadbury; mercifully, Anderson wasn’t home, and by avoiding his terrace I managed to not think about my book rotting out there.
I let my babies loose in the dog run and sat on a bench in Riverside Park. The rain had eased, and we had the place to ourselves. No longer jealous of the New York professionals and their workaday lives, I stopped to enjoy the tranquility.
But something didn’t sit right. It was as though I had left the stove on at home, and after searching my mind, I realized what it was: Trish.
Sure, we’d grown apart, but I only had one friend left from kindergarten. One friend with whom I’d giggled hysterically while making phony phone calls during sleepovers. One friend who always cared about me even when Jenna was the focus of the whole family’s attention. One friend who told Jump-Shot Jimmy I had a crush on him and then consoled me for weeks when he broke it off. One friend who made me her maid of honor, even though she had three other girls vying for the position. One friend who, admittedly mistakenly, tried to fix me up with a guy she thought I’d like.
I hit her landline on speed-dial.
“Hi, you’ve reached Trish, Tom, Connor, and Lily,” her voicemail said, as if someone might actually call a toddler or an eight-month-old baby. “Leave a message!”
“Trish, it’s me, Laurel. I’m really sorry about the other day with your dentist friend. It’s a whole long story I’ll tell you when—”
Suddenly, Trish picked up the phone. “Laurel! There is absolutely no excuse in the world for walking out on my cute friend without so much as a goodbye,” she said, but I could tell from the tone of her voice she’d forgiven me. “So what’s this long story?”
Trish cracked up when I told her about my close encounter with a future in girdle journalism, but she insisted I would have liked Irwin. “He is such a cool guy. You are totally missing out.”
Relieved that we’d made up, we confirmed our usual lunch at Sushi and Slushies before getting off the phone. The rain had stopped, the air was fresh, and everything was right with the world, unless you counted the fact that Slobodan had found a piece of trash to chew on.
“Drop it!” I screamed.
- 7 -
The Duplex is a legendary club and piano bar on Seventh Avenue South in the Village. I couldn’t figure out why it was Step Two on my road to success, but I trusted Vanessa, who had insisted we go there that Thursday night at nine. She’d been delighted to hear about my father’s mysterious appearance at the exact moment I’d finished burning my bring-me-down baggage. “Your relationship changed precisely when you effected an inner change,” she explained. “That’s how it works. And it does work. You’ll see.”
The club was crowded with aspiring stars: a purple-clad drag queen who thought she was Whitney Houston, stand-up comics mumbling their routines, and musicians frantically studying sheet music. Even the waitresses sang and tap danced when they brought the drinks.
I could relate to them well. Follow your dream to New York City, put it all on the line, and pray for the big break.
Except for her wedding ring, Vanessa looked like the typical single partier. She was dressed all in black with an electric blue scarf thrown over her shoulder. Although she was too short to be a model, she was definitely pretty enough, with that bouncy dark hair framing her petite features. But most stunning of all was her compassion. Why would a woman like that care about me? I wondered. Gratefully, I took a seat by her side.
“This place is full of dreamers—can’t you feel it?” she asked.
Just then, a trio of men in matching spandex began crooning Barbra Streisand’s “Evergreen.”
“Love, soft as an easy chair—”
It was a sore subject for me, and I couldn’t help but feel a little downcast.
Vanessa must have read my thoughts, because her penetrating brown eyes took me in with profound concern.
“Bad breakup?” she asked.
“Worse. Never even came close.”
“Why is that worse? It means you still have a chance.”
“Oh, forget that. He would never even look at a girl like me.”
“You owe me another dollar.” Vanessa held out her hand.
“I refuse to pay. His girlfriend’s a famous singer, and I’m a nobody.”
“Two dollars.” Her hand stayed open. “Every time you think a negative thought you create the condition for it to become a reality.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re gorgeous and married.”
“Laurel, you’re beautiful. It’s just your thinking that’s ugly. Now, answer this: Who do you see yourself with?”
“Probably some bald dentist named Irwin from Long Island. That’s who my best friend tried to fix me up with.”
“Some friend.” Vanessa’s garnet-colored lips twisted into a grimace. “Let’s put it this way: Who’s that guy you wanted to be with?”
“His name’s Lucien. He’s a music critic with the most divine hair and baby blue eyes.”
“Oh, the blue eyes. They kill me every time.”
“That’s just the beginning. He’s so skinny and sexy. If I had a guy like that I wouldn’t even care about publishing my novel.”
“Stick with me, kid, and you’ll get both.”
On stage now, the drag queen was singing “I Will Always Love You” but hitting only about half of the notes.
“Ow, my ears,” I complained.
“Don’t criticize too much,” Vanessa cautioned. “You’re on in three.”
“I’m what?”
“Amateur night. I signed you up.”
“You didn’t!” I was aghast. “But I can’t sing to save my life!”
“That’s the whole point. You’re going to confront your fear of failure.”
Suddenly I wanted to kill this mentor lady. How could she trap me like that with no warning? Sensing my anger, she quickly added, “Don’t worry, kid, I’m going on first. I’ll be an easy act to follow, I promise.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Vanessa brought down the house with her rendition of a burlesque number from Gypsy. She wasn’t a great singer, but she held the crowd with her gutsy charisma. When she hit the line, “You’ve gotta get a gimmick if you want to get ahead,” I felt like she was singing directly to me.
Sweaty and proud, she patted my back as they called my name. “Work with the crowd, not against them,” she advised.
The only song that came to mind was “Oh My Darling Clementine,” which I had performed at a sixth-grade talent show. Lacking my little cowgirl outfit, I felt even less comfortable than I had then, and the audience must have sensed it.
My voice wobbled at the microphone. “This is a number I did back when I was a little girl,” I said, on the verge of losing it.
“Shut up!” a drunken heckler screamed. The crowd roared with laughter, and I could feel my face turn beet red. But
suddenly, Vanessa’s eyes met mine, and her challenging look shot courage right through me.
“You shut up!” I countered. The crowd laughed again, this time on my side. And then, without even realizing it, a new song tripped on my lips.
Pointing right at the drunken heckler, I sang with gusto,
What’s a matta you – hey!
Gotta no respect
It was a ridiculous campy Italian spoof by a one-hit wonder named Joe Dolce. I had memorized it unconsciously one summer when a cook at the Copenhagen Café where I used to work insisted on singing it every time a dish was sent back.
Whaddya think ya do – hey
Why ya looka so sad?
I took the mic from its stand, thrust a hand on my hip, and kicked my leg up suggestively.
It’s a not so bad – hey!
It’s a nice a place…
By this time, the audience was mine, having been won over by my quick comeback. Around the room, happy couples, glittering dancers, brooding musicians, and everyone in between was swaying to the music. Taking a chance, I beckoned them all to join in on the last line, and by magic, they shouted in unison:
AW SHADDUP A YOU FACE!
Everyone applauded enthusiastically, no one more than Vanessa. I hugged her when I triumphantly returned to our table. “But why didn’t you warn me I’d be performing?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You would have told me that was impossible. This way I got to prove that the only thing that limits you is you.”
I’d heard that a million times before, but this was the first time I actually believed it.
It was another noisy New York morning later that week: sirens blaring, garbage trucks roaring, and the sound of a million people yelling into their cell phones. Mini had just dumped a maxi on the sidewalk, and after I shoveled it up with a baggie I looked up to see none other than Portia Thorn staring at me with pity.
“I see you’re still in—what do you call it? Pet care management?” She smirked.
I tossed the baggie in a nearby trashcan and tried to think of a way to get away from Portia before she could start bragging. “It pays the rent,” I shrugged.
“I haven’t seen you for ages,” she said. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you there’s a bidding war on for my book.”
“Really?” I asked, wanting to sic all five of my dogs on her smug little face.
“You wouldn’t understand, but it’s actually nerve-wracking,” she said.
AW SHUDDUP A YOU FACE! I screamed in my mind. The memory of my triumph at the Duplex filled me with an unfamiliar confidence, and I said instead, “Yes, I imagine you’re worried that you’ll get a huge advance and the sales won’t keep up.”
“No, Laurel,” she replied defensively. “A huge advance means they think you have a lot of potential.”
“Right,” I countered, “but what if you don’t live up to that hype? Then you’ve actually cost them money, and they’ll never publish anything of yours again.”
“They’re saying Wild Asparagus is going to make me this generation’s Hemingway,” she declared.
Hemingway? She had to be kidding. “Good for you,” I said. “Let’s hope they’re right and you don’t end your days as a one-hit blunder.”
I had confessed to Vanessa how plain I felt every day picking up Mini at the beauty salon, so I was upset when she told me to meet her at Sergio’s one morning after my rounds. “Why here of all places?” I asked her outside the fancy clip joint.
“Why else? You have an appointment.”
“Oh no. I’d have to clean up after Mini for a month free if I ever got one of their treatments.”
“You’re getting three. And don’t worry, it’s on me.”
“That’s really nice of you, Vanessa. Except, the truth is, I could afford it myself if I thought it would help. But there’s no hope for this mop.”
“That’s gonna cost you—”
“I’m not kidding, Vanessa. Let me finish. I’ve had dozens of hundred-dollar haircuts and spent thousands on products, and it always stays the same: kind of frizzy, kind of straight, always mousy. Perms and colors just damage it. The only solution is a good hat.”
“Sounds like you’ve consulted all the experts,” she said.
“And then some.”
“Except the most important one.”
“Sergio?”
“No, Laurel. You! You’ve lived with that hair for twenty-eight years. Obviously you’ve bought into the notion that it’s ugly, and you’ve left all the decisions to people who earn their living off of your insecurity. I want you to say something good about your hair. What do you like about it?”
“Well, I guess you could say it’s thick,” I said.
“And?”
“And when it’s not humid out it manages to be wavy.”
“And?”
“And it can be worn a lot of different ways with clips and barrettes.”
“That’s my girl. Now, I want you to march in there and tell them you want a cut that works with the thickness and brings out the beautiful waves, and then I want you to buy their prettiest barrettes. You can pay for those with the money you just saved by seeing what’s right with your hair instead of what’s wrong.”
When I got inside, they were all surprised to see me. “But Mini’s already had her walk!” Sergio’s assistant commented. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“Actually, I’m here for a wash, cut, and cellophane.”
“You’re that Laurel? Well, what do you know,” she said, checking my name in the appointment book.
As I stared at myself in the mirror with the plastic apron around my neck, I remembered all the times I’d meekly implored hairdressers to make a miracle with my hideous locks. Inevitably they would suggest something radical, like a tight perm, double-process highlights, or an asymmetrical cut. Hoping for a miracle, I’d thank them profusely and grossly over-tip, but by the time I got home, the disaster would be obvious, and I’d melt into tears.
Not this time, though.
“So what are we doing today?” the stylist asked.
“My hair’s really thick and wavy,” I said, almost unable to believe those words were coming from my mouth.
“It is!” the stylist affirmed.
“So don’t do anything radical,” I commanded.
“We’ll have to even this out,” she cautioned, combing through the strands that had suffered the last asymmetrical disaster.
“Just bring out the natural beauty,” I said.
By the time she’d finished, I walked out having to admit I looked pretty good. She’d evened out the cut so that my hair bounced lightly around my face, and I could tell it wouldn’t take three hours of effort every morning to make it look this way again. It was me, and I nearly liked it.
Just as I was looking around for Vanessa, my cell phone rang. “So?” she asked. “Am I right? Are you beautiful or what?”
“I look pretty good, it’s true,” I said with a smile.
“How much longer before you have to go back to work?” I just loved the way she acknowledged my job, which most people treated like a hobby or a joke.
“About two hours,” I calculated.
“Great,” she said. “I want you to go home, put on your best outfit, and meet me in half an hour at six-eighty-five Broadway on the fourteenth floor.”
What did she have in mind this time? I wondered, feeling like I was on a treasure hunt.
Right on time, wearing my favorite jeans skirt, a white lace top with a brown suede jacket, and my Nicole Miller mules, I was shocked when I got out of the elevator in the midtown office tower. Staring me in the face was a sign on the door that read: The New York Arts and Entertainment Review.
In other words, I was at Lucien’s office.
When I turned to leave, Vanessa came out of the elevator. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said.
“I can’t,” I whimpered. “He has a girlfriend who is gorgeous!”
“You’re gorgeous,” she said. “I adore the natural look.” She turned me around. “This haircut is so you.”
“What about the clothes?” I asked.
“Great. Just one minor adjustment.” She pulled my waistband up and folded it over, making my skirt two inches shorter. “Let him see those sexy legs.”
Before I could stop her, Vanessa had pushed me through the door.
“We’re here to see Lucien Brosseau,” she said.
This time I knew she had gone too far. You can’t make a man want you through willpower.
“Is he expecting you?” the receptionist asked.
Just then, he walked by the water cooler. Maybe Vanessa could feel me cringe, or maybe it was the blue eyes, but she instantly knew it was him. “Lucien!” she called. “You remember Laurel?”
“Laurel…” he said, checking me out.
“They’re here to see you, but they don’t have an appointment,” the receptionist announced sourly.
“You look great,” he addressed me, ignoring her. “My office is down the hall; come on,” he beckoned.
It was just as I’d imagined: books and papers everywhere, with titles like A Cello in Your Arms and La Semoitique du McDonalds; a heavy old desk with a sleek notebook computer on top; lush plants completed the picture—and not a single copy of Us Magazine in sight. Basically the opposite of a dentist’s office, I thought.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said, “but I’m on deadline.”
“It’s fine,” I stammered.
“Have a seat,” he offered. “What brings you here?”
I was wondering that myself, feeling a crazy mix of incredible excitement and deep mortification.
“Laurel thinks you’re just so sexy,” Vanessa said. The mortification deepened. Hadn’t she ever heard of playing hard to get?
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” he replied.
“But I had to come here and find out for myself,” she added.
“Because you’re her . . . chaperone?” he guessed with amusement.
